


Better Unsaid

by mylittleredgirl



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4365755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittleredgirl/pseuds/mylittleredgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Archer and Trip discover an alien bathroom and get thrown in jail. You know, the usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MeredithBrody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeredithBrody/gifts).



***

He doesn't want to admit it—he really, _really_ doesn't want to admit it—but since he just got thrown down into a deep hole by burly aliens with guns, and since Captain Archer is _also_ at the bottom of this hole / prison cell / general all-around place they did not intend to be, he has to:

“Yeah,” he says, pushing himself up off the ground. At least nothing feels broken. “T’Pol was right.”

***

There are a few up-sides:

1) He and the captain are together, which means they’re more likely to come up with some kind of idea

2) The armed aliens guarding the pit look bored instead of angry, like they'd rather have a sandwich and a movie night than kill two Starfleet officers, and

3) He’s still wearing all his clothes.

Ever since that ill-fated trip to Risa, Trip adds #3 to his list of away mission up-sides as often as possible. For that matter:

4) Malcolm isn't here.

It's not that Trip doesn't like Malcolm—in fact, two years into their mission, there are few people he'd rather have watching his back—but he has been adding #4 to his mental list of upsides whenever he's trapped in a confined space with someone _other_ than Malcolm for so long that it became a habit.

He really does get trapped in confined spaces with Malcolm _a lot_.

Unfortunately, because of upside #1 (he and the captain being together, coming up with ideas, etc.), neither one of them has the chance to effect a heroic rescue and/or contact the ship. The apparent apathy of the guards above them is also dubiously helpful, because while they’re not actively threatening them, they’re also not responding to any of Captain Archer’s yelled requests for an audience with their leader / an explanation for their capture / a sign that they can even understand his language. 

There’s really no downside to being clothed. Trip is holding on to that one. 

Archer gives up on yelling up at the guards, pants for breath for half a minute, and then makes a face that's less than encouraging. “Suggestions?”

Their cell is at least two stories tall and cylindrical. The walls are polished so smooth that even a spider would have a hard time with it, and the shaft is too wide for them to attempt climbing up back to back. Even if there weren’t guards above them, they’re stuck. He kicks the nearest wall with the toe of his boot, but of course it’s too solid to even make a dent. 

Trip suggests, “Wait for rescue?”

Archer shakes his head. “Aren't we supposed to be getting better at this?”

***

“You did say you wanted some fresh air,” Archer says. 

Trip preferred it when he was yelling pointlessly at the guards. Command Cheerful is one of his friend’s more aggravating moods. It’s like he’s Porthos, endlessly hopeful that surely the _next_ bit of terrible luck will definitely be cheese in disguise.

The captain takes a deep breath and sighs it out like he’s starring in a one-man Starfleet recruitment video. “Smell that? Alien atmosphere. On another planet. Who would have thought, two years ago–”

And that’s enough. “Nope. No way. You’re not getting me to say I’m grateful for being stuck in a pit on movie night.”

“It’s always in the computer.” Archer says, accompanied by a serious nod. “You can watch it any time, Trip.” 

“ _Godzilla vs. Mothra_ , Captain. You need a crowd for that one.” 

“Oh, absolutely. I completely agree.” Earnestly Listening To His Crew While Silently Mocking Them is another of the captain’s mood that Trip doesn’t appreciate. 

Silence. Silence. 

Archer sits down and slumps against the wall, either because he’s out of forced cheer or because he finally realized this alien atmosphere smells mostly like socks. “T’Pol will find us.”

Trip sighs. “T’Pol will find us.”

***

Usually, T’Pol finds them faster than this, Trip thinks, and it’s probably not a good sign that she’s had to rescue them often enough in the last two years that it's possible to calculate a statistically viable average. Maybe she's letting them stew. Did Vulcans do that? T’Pol probably did.

Archer has tried the yelling thing on and off, as has Trip—he even offered to invite their silent overseers to movie night—and the guards are paying them approximately zero attention in return. Trip is pissed off, he's getting cold as the planet rotates into nighttime, and mostly, he's bored. Sitting at the bottom of a pit is the opposite of the day he planned (getting the first look at abandoned alien technology, returning to the ship in time for a nice steak and movie night, gloating to T'Pol that she was definitely not right). 

"So," Trip says. "Twenty questions?"

“Trip.” It's Archer's we're-on-an-alien-planet-with-aliens-making-first-contact voice. His we-are-Starfleet’s-Finest-even-when-at-the-bottom-of-a-pit voice. His we-are-definitely-not-going-to-be-playing-twenty-questions-when-T'Pol-rescues-us-like- _last-time_ voice.

“You were the one trying to make this sound like a camping trip a few hours ago.” Trip raises his eyebrows and waits him out.

Archer groans. “All right: most ridiculous place you've ever been caught sneaking into.”

On second thought, twenty questions is a terrible idea. “An alien bathroom is pretty high on the list, sir.”

The captain winces, and amends: “Most ridiculous place you’ve ever snuck into before six hours ago.” Then: “Maybe we should leave that part out of the mission logs.” 

“Are you kidding? The only reason T’Pol hasn’t rescued us yet is because she’s probably flying the ship back to Earth to tell Soval herself.”

_“Trip.”_

“All right, all right.” He and T’Pol have come to a truce anyway, where they only insult each other on alternate Fridays. 

Silence.

After about five minutes, Archer suggests, “Strangest place you’ve been caught sneaking into without me?”

That knocks another few highlights off the list—they really _need_ to get better at this—but after a moment, Trip remembers the Laundry-Mat at the Historical Recreation Society outside Orlando and grins. “Actually, that's not a bad story.”

***

He hasn’t seen a thing in hours. The guards might not even be up there anymore. Maybe whatever sensor scattering field the aliens used to hide their presence in the first place blocks out the stars. Maybe they’ve been forgotten here. Maybe they’ll starve to death before they have to tell Starfleet that their Warp 5 mission ground to a halt for an undetermined number of days because the chief engineer of the Enterprise incorrectly identified an alien portable toilet as a gold mine of advanced technology. 

“We're never going to hear the end of it, you know.”

He can’t see the captain rolling his eyes, but he can hear it in his voice. “Don't remind me."

***

A few more hours, and Trip decides he’d rather have just been confined in the alien bathroom. It’s not like Starfleet is in dire need of leaps forward in bidet technology, but at least he would’ve had something to do.

And, well.

The point is: T’Pol should probably try harder to stop them from doing these things.

***

He wakes up, unwillingly, because the captain is shaking his shoulder. It’s just getting light enough to see.

“Ow, cut it out,” Trip says. His whole body is sore, not just his shoulder. He should probably have expected that; getting manhandled by alien giants into a hole doesn’t do a body any favors, fully clothed or otherwise, and sleeping on the floor probably didn’t help.

_“Trip.”_

He stops complaining long enough to look up. One of the two guards is missing. The other one looks just as bored as ever, at least as much as Trip can tell in the dim light. 

The captain says: “He left a few minutes ago.”

“Maybe he went off to pee,” Trip grumbles. He can only see a small section of sky from where he is, but the sunrise looks as gray and disappointing as the rest of his time on this planet, and he’d rather have slept through it.

The guard returns with a coiled rope in his arms and tosses it down, then yells down the first and only thing either of them has said: “Out!” 

“I guess they _can_ understand us,” Archer says, tugging on the rope to test its stability. 

“Or ‘out’ could mean ‘this is a test and climbing the rope will kill you,’” Trip says, because Hoshi likes to remind everyone of all the ways innocuous English-sounding phrases can get them killed on other planets, but mostly because he really hated this part of basic training. Climbing up and down metal rungs all day to work on the engine is one thing. Rope burn is another.

“Come on, Trip. It’s good exercise.” The captain is smiling. _Smiling._ Like a full-on _grin_. “It’ll save us some time in the gym.” 

On second thought, Trip would prefer being stuck in a pit with Malcolm.

***

The captain climbs out first. Trip, apparently, takes too long on the rope, because the giant guard grabs the other end and hauls it up like he weighs nothing. 

“Thanks.”

Apparently one word was the maximum the guards plan to expend on them, so all he gets in exchange is a vague grunt, and then a shove to the back that knocks him over. 

“It appears we’re walking somewhere,” Archer says, helping him up.

Trip spits dirt out of his mouth. “Great.”

***

They walk for a few kilometers. Or, rather, the guards walk, and Trip and Archer run to keep between them and avoid getting trampled.

Archer seems to be enjoying himself. Trip hopes this adventure doesn’t end in death, because he’ll be really pissed off if his last activity is a brisk jog.

The front guard stops abruptly, grunts again, and then turns and walks away. When he moves out of the way, Trip sees a glorious sight: a shuttlepod.

Shuttlepod One, actually. _Their_ shuttlepod, at least eight kilometers from where they parked it. Malcolm and Travis are standing in front of it, looking far more relaxed than they probably should for a prisoner transfer or whatever is happening here. Travis even waves.

“Right on time,” Malcolm says, like that explains everything.

“Lieutenant?” Archer asks.

Trip has had about enough. “What the hell is going on?”

***

Malcolm lets T’Pol explain it back on the ship, presumably because she’ll enjoy it more. Malcolm sticks around to watch, though.

“We established contact with the Krothik just after your capture and they explained the situation,” she says, standing a few paces away from them as Phlox examines them in sickbay. “They allowed us to retrieve our shuttlepod, and we agreed that you would be released after planetary dawn. A diplomatic resolution seemed preferrable to armed conflict.”

“Oh.” Archer says, looking a little deflated. “Yes, of course. Good to know they’ll talk to _someone_.”

“Nice of you to let _us_ in on this plan.” Trip raises his arm, trying to stretch out his aching shoulder. T’Pol wrinkles her nose and takes another step backward. 

“Don’t worry, Commander!” Phlox smiles. “I kept a close watch on your life signs the entire time.”

“The Krothik were actually quite helpful,” Malcolm adds. 

Unbelievable. Now the aliens are _helpful_. Trip thought he could count on Malcolm, at least, to always advocate for a firefight and a dramatic rescue. “Well, then, you should have invited them to movie night.”

Malcolm ignores him. “Their sensor scattering field is so precise, they are able to activate or deactivate it for an area as small as three square meters. It’s a shame they wiped your sensor equipment before returning it. That must have been something to see.”

There’s a very short pause before Archer chuckles. “Well, actually–”

 _“Yes,”_ Trip says, louder, realizing what’s about to happen. “That’s definitely the technology we were caught examining.” 

T’Pol raises an eyebrow.

This time, the pause is uncomfortably long.

“Regardless,” T’Pol finally says, somehow managing to look even more Vulcan than usual, “I believe Starfleet Command will consider this a successful first-contact mission. With your permission, I will return to the bridge.”

Archer nods. “Good job, Sub-Commander. Lieutenant.” It isn’t until she and Malcolm leave that he drops his Serious Captain Dealing With Serious Matters face and gives Trip a smirk.

It could be worse, Trip decides. Maybe they’ll live this one down after all.

*end*


End file.
